


The Pumpkin Peddler

by Thealmostrhetoricalquestion



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Curses, Fairy Tale Elements, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, M/M, Magic, Not Canon Compliant, Secret Identity, Sharing a Bed, True Love's Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26994898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion/pseuds/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion
Summary: When an irritable toad of a woman wants to take over his Cheese Shop, Scorpius does his level best to thwart her every move, to no avail. This, of course, means he ends up visiting the Wizard in the moors every other day, each time sporting a new Curse that needs lifting.Albus has never had such a reliable return customer before, but he's starting to enjoy the company.
Relationships: Scorpius Malfoy/Albus Severus Potter
Comments: 25
Kudos: 104





	The Pumpkin Peddler

**Author's Note:**

> This AU isn't really set in the Harry Potter world - it's sort of vaguely Ghibli-inspired, and set in a magical world that doesn't really exist but still has Harry Potterish magic, like wands and stuff. Not much else is different though! I hope you enjoy it! <3

oOo

Scorpius is not one to let a little curse stop him from doing anything. Never mind that it’s not a little curse at all, or that he’s already had trouble getting out of bed this morning; he’s still going to do what has to be done.

His cheese shop in the middle of town can run itself just fine, with the interference of a few stern, efficient mice and a next-door neighbour that has a bit of a crush on him. The crush is quite sweet and entirely one-sided, which was a bit of a shock to realise. Scorpius is usually the one who falls deeply in love at first sight, only to be cut down later on by said love of his life. 

With previously nimble fingers, Scorpius closes the weathered accounts book, pockets a sandwich lined with crumbly gouda, and hops on the next train. 

Well, _hops_ is a bit of a stretch. Hobbles. He hobbles onto the next train and collapses in a plush single seat near the window, one that gives him a fair view of the surrounding mountains. It’s warm on the train. They weave through fields of lush green, flecked with energetic balls of cotton that baa and graze. The wheels clatter and bang. Smoke taints the crisp, fresh air, clouding the window. Scorpius unwinds the lid of a flask patterned with glossy bees and sips the hot, fragrant tea inside, nursing his aching bones. 

Not one night ago, he had been wiping down the countertops in his cheese shop, spry as anything. Leaping from shelf to shelf, a pad of paper suspended in front of him as he muttered aloud, new recipes falling from his frenetic mind. His dictating quill (fondly named Richard) caught every word in fine, shining ink. 

Until the door blew open. 

Scorpius sinks a little further into his seat. It really is warm. The train only goes so far, but his stop is soon, and he can’t risk falling asleep. The last stop happens to be far out in the mountains, where it’s colder and the wildlife is less understanding than the stray foxes that he feeds behind his shop. He doesn’t want to miss his stop and end up out there, freezing to death, but the seat is so very comfortable. 

“No,” Scorpius says, shaking himself awake. “I may be old now, but I haven’t lost my self-control.”

He thinks of all the cheese he couldn’t sell over the last year, due to the furtive nibbles taken from the sides, and he cringes. The mice weren’t to blame; as if they would let him try. 

“Self-control is overrated anyway,” Scorpius mutters. 

The train itself provides enough entertainment to keep him occupied for a bit. There is a child, no older than six, sitting alone a few seats down. He’s reading a newspaper intently. That is enough to prod Scorpius’s suspicions, but he decides not to investigate. A dog trots down the center aisle, leaping up onto a nearby chair and curling up to sleep. Scorpius spends over five minutes just watching the dog, until quite suddenly he’s watching several different dogs, all of them prancing over each other and yelping happily, wagging their fluffy tails. One has wings. The other has a wig. 

And just as suddenly, he’s being shaken awake. 

“Last stop, sir,” says the hostess, in an apologetic tone of voice. “We can’t have you on board while we clean, I’m afraid!”

Scorpius hobbles back off the train, yawning every few steps. It’s only when the brisk air slaps him harshly in his face that he realises exactly where he is, which is not at all where he wanted to be. He stands in the doorway and swears harshly. The wind bites his wrinkles, chiding. 

“Excuse me, please, sir.”

“Oh, of course!” Scorpius springs aside in a move that makes several important bones creak. “I’m so sorry!”

The little boy steps down from the train. He folds his newspaper in half, and then in half again. And then in half again. Scorpius blinks. The newspaper grows smaller and smaller, until it is no bigger than a perfectly flat post-it, somehow not bulging with news of the coming Winter Market or last week’s crop decay, and then the little boy puts it in his pocket. He aims a shiny, toothy grin at Scorpius. 

“Mind the gap, Granddad.” 

The train toots as if in agreement, and Scorpius jerks slightly in surprise. He had been drifting closer to the train as he watched the strange, confident display of magic. In one so young, it should have been far clumsier. To be quite frank, it shouldn’t have been possible. 

“Incredible,” Scorpius murmurs. 

The boy has very sharp eyes, a deep brownish colour. He peers closely at Scorpius, like a bird studying a rodent in the woods. When Scorpius simply peers back, fascinated, the boy smiles a little. 

“Y’alright there, Granddad? You look a bit lost.”

“I’m not old enough to be your Granddad,” Scorpius complains, though of course he _is,_ now. But he wasn’t yesterday, and that should be taken into account. He wonders at the way the spell lets him speak, but either the boy is much sharper and more magical than the spell can handle, or old people complain about not being that old all the time. 

“Maybe not,” the boy says, smirking. “You headed somewhere important? Maybe I can help.”

There is a proper train station a few feet away, where tickets can be bought for a train back to the Vell—his original destination. But he hesitates. Even if he finds his parents at the Vell, there’s no guarantee that they’ll be able to help him. He can’t even tell them what happened, thanks to the spell. They might not even recognise him, old as he is, though he doesn’t think that would really happen. 

“You’re not as young as you look, are you?” Scorpius asks. “You speak like a grown-up. Actually, I’ve had less intelligent conversations from real grown-ups, which is saying something, because I don't have a lot of conversations.”

It strikes him then, how terribly pathetic that is to admit. The boy doesn’t look at him in the pitying way he clearly deserves, but his frown softens slightly. He pats the dog that ambles off the train behind him, just in time for the train to pull out of the station. The dog shoots him a dirty look. Scorpius stares at it in bewilderment; he didn't think dogs had many expressions outside of joy or desperation in the face of sausages. 

“I ran into a Curse,” the boy says. “Pretty shoddy Curse, actually, but I’d rather get it taken care of straight away.”

The dog barks, once. Clearly a reprimand. Then it fluffs up its tail and stalks away, trotting through the few people milling about the station and heading for a dirt track in the near-distance. 

“You know, I think it might be best if I just climb back on the next train and sort this out myself,” Scorpius begins. 

“Don't be stupid!” The boy grips his arm and pulls him along, his teeth shining in a triumphant, encouraging grin. “I know just the person who can help you. And don't you fancy a bit of an adventure, before you really do get too old for it?”

oOo

The walk is far longer than any walk ought to be. They pass trees and hedges and spirited birds that chirp their good afternoon’s. Scorpius would probably enjoy it more if he didn't creak like a wooden board every time he shifted a joint.

“We’re going to see a Wizard,” the little boy says, when prompted. “He’s a bit of a grump, and he’s anti-social as anything, but you’ll like him, I reckon. He’s pretty good at undoing Curses, even if the Cursed person can’t say anything about them.”

He looks meaningfully at Scorpius, who tries not to jump three feet in the air. 

“I know plenty of Wizards, though,” Scorpius says. “I’m a Wizard. So are you, I expect.”

The dog, up ahead, huffs very dubiously. 

“Hey!” shouts the little boy. “There’s no need for that! And I said sorry, didn't I?”

The dog simply keeps on trotting, nose in the air. It’s a big grey dog with lumbering paws and a squashed snout. There’s no collar, but the dog clearly belongs to the boy, or at the very least knows him quite well. 

“As if it wasn’t his fault too,” the little boy mutters. “Anyway, what was I saying? Oh yeah! You know plenty of Wizards, sure, and so do I, but this bloke isn’t like them. He’s my brother, so I can’t say too many nice things about him, or he’ll hear me and get a big head. But trust me, you’ll understand when we get there.”

But they don't get there until nightfall, when the wind swells around them like an agitated wave and blows cold air into Scorpius’s hollow, crumbling bones. He shivers and shakes. By this time, he isn’t all that interested in the Wizard beyond how he can help. 

The house that rises up out of the hills resembles a perfectly-risen banana loaf. It has a domed, thatched roof, and the walls are brown with circular windows. There’s no front garden, but situated on the moors like this, there probably isn’t need for a specific patch of tamed wilderness. 

The little boy marches straight up to the arched door and bangs on it. The dog sits down near a single flower pot that looks one more day away from wilting, and tilts its head at Scorpius. Scorpius wheezes and huffs, collapsing on the low wall that has mostly crumbled away. It rings only half of the property, and falls in places, scattering bricks and debris on the ground. 

It’s hard to see in the evening gloom, but Scorpius thinks he sees eyes in the window. 

“Albus, open up!” the little boy yells, still banging on the door. “It’s James! I know I sound different, but don't laugh, I need help! So does Teddy!”

The dog doesn’t stop looking at Scorpius, but one of it’s floppy ears twitches. 

“I brought someone with me…” the little boy turns, wide-eyed, and says, “Hang about, I don't think I know your name.”

“You don't, but I don't know yours either, so it’s fair.”

“Stop bringing strangers to my door.”

This voice doesn’t come from the little boy, or from the dog. It comes, instead, from the man standing in the aforementioned door, wiping his hands on a dish-towel and looking very put-out. He’s not wearing robes, which Scorpius sort of expected from a Wizard; his clothes are dirty and rumpled consisting of a pair of blue dungarees and a white shirt smeared in earth. He has a slim face with a hint of stubble on his jaw, and his eyes glint as he takes them all in. 

“Albus!” says the little boy brightly. “Give us a hand, will you?”

Albus rolls his eyes. He must be the Wizard, but he really doesn’t look like anything spectacular, or anything particularly Curse-orientated. Scorpius wonders if he might have had better luck running back to the Fells after all. 

And then Albus looks him in the eyes, and jerks back as though he’s been hit. He drops the dish-towel, fumbling to pick it up before it can hit the ground. The little boy looks between the two of them, taking in Scorpius’s bewilderment and Albus’s flustered state, and starts howling with laughter. The dog lets out a very human chuckle that Scorpius finds particularly haunting. 

“Shut up, James,” Albus hisses. 

“Oh, this is too brilliant. You don't even know.” The little boy, who must be James, wipes his eyes. “C’mon, Al. Either let us in or I’ll spill all your silly secrets right here.”

With a little grunt, Albus pulls back the door to let them in.

oOo

“So you were looking for help from your dead parents?”

“Not dead, but definitely distant,” Scorpius says. 

When the Wizard just looks at him, Scorpius adds, “Very, very distant.”

Draco Malfoy found a very peculiar way of staving off the blood-curse that was afflicting his wife, Astoria. The spell was an interesting one that allowed the caster and its intended ‘victim’ to live in a distant state: in a very basic sort of sense, they were ghosts, but they could interact with the modern world. The only thing they couldn’t do was eat. 

For Scorpius, who ran a Cheese Shop and often needed input on his newest flavours, this was frustrating, but not worth the agony of giving up the spell. When he saw his parents these days, he travelled to the Vells, where they lived off the magic in the air and danced every evening on the Traveller’s moonstones. Their days were light and cheery, their eyes alight with love. 

When the Wizard just keeps looking at him, like Scorpius is something squelched into the bottom of his heavy purple boot, Scorpius draws himself up as defensively as his old bones will allow and says, “Well I didn't know what to do! It’s not every day you land yourself in a predicament like this, and I don't see you coming up with any ideas.”

“You’ve spent the last fifteen minutes not letting me get a word in,” Albus says, blinking at him incredulously. “How’d you expect me to help you if you won’t shut up for long enough to hear my ideas?” 

Flushing, Scorpius sits down on the chair. The kitchen they’ve been chivvied into is a tidy, cramped affair, brimming with alchemy equipment and vials of congealed, glowing gunge. There’s also something cooking in the oven that smells really, really good, if Scorpius is being honest, but after that comment, he’s not about to pay the man a compliment. 

“Ease off, Alby,” James says. “You did ask him to explain what happened.”

Albus takes the only other chair left, muttering fiercely under his breath. The table isn’t big enough for all three of them and the dog, who scrambled persistently up onto a chair the minute they stepped into the room, and gave them all a fiery look as though daring them to evict him. But despite the small, round table and how they don't quite fit, Albus joins them anyway. He rolls up his sleeves and snatches up a quill, still muttering as he draws thick lines along a bit of parchment. 

“Is that to fix this Curse?” James asks. 

“No, you know it’s not. You interrupted me, so I’m going to finish this, and then I’ll help you. If you keep talking, I’ll take longer on purpose.”

James snorts with laughter, not seeming to mind the gruff behaviour. Scorpius looks between and Albus’s hunched shoulders, baffled. 

“Don't mind him,” James says cheerily, with a gap-toothed grin. “He’s rubbish at socialising. Hates people. That’s why he lives out here on the moors, where nobody except his favourite brother comes to visit him.”

“Bother him, you mean,” Albus corrects him, still hunched over his parchment. “Anyway, I don't hate people. People just don't usually like me, so I don't see why I have to bother.”

James rolls his eyes and swings his legs, his tiny feet kicking the air ineffectively. There are plenty of things that Scorpius doesn’t quite understand about this whole meeting, not least of all how he managed to get embroiled in it in the first place, but his tired, aching body has very little energy left to waste on figuring it all out. He slumps in the chair and folds his crinkled, gnarled hands over his belly, resting his chin on his chest. Sleep comes quickly. 

While he dozes, Albus draws. James raids a biscuit tin and eats half a packet of strawberry creams, and the dog whuffs through its nose impatiently. The weather outside gets increasingly worse, until the bitingly cold air sneaks in through every crack and crook of the cottage, prompting James to prod the old fireplace to life. 

At the first crackle of flames and wave of warmth, Scorpius jerks awake, and Albus adds a final flourish to his drawings. 

“Alright,” Albus says, nodding. “James, Ted, you’re the easiest to do. Come stand over here and don't move, or you’ll lose a limb. No dinner, either.”

That threat gets everyone moving quickly. The dog shoves its snout into the back of James’s knees until they’re both standing in front of the fire, and Scorpius squirms upright in the chair until he can watch the scene unfold properly. 

Albus leaves the parchment on the table, waving his wand carelessly, and from down the dim corridor of the cottage, something comes rattling and clanking. It speeds towards them on tiny wooden wheels and comes skidding to a halt beside Albus with a screech and a pop of white smoke. 

“What is that?” Scorpius asks, peering at it. 

It looks like a moving cart with a cloth roof. Albus whips the cloth aside and uncovers dozens of slots and drawers and shelves, some of which glow with a strange hue and some of which are jiggling impatiently. 

“I call it a vending machine,” Albus says. 

“A vending machine,” Scorpius repeats, awed. “That’s fascinating. What does it do?”

“Let him show you, old man,” James says, wriggling impatiently on the spot. “Come on, come on!”

Albus rolls his eyes. He yanks open different drawers with practiced ease, flipping open each tiny cupboard and murmuring under his breath. Something about the easy confidence, the self-assured approach, makes Scorpius press a hand to his fluttering chest and lean back in his seat. It’s probably just an increased-age-induced heart attack. 

He doesn’t see what Albus retrieves, but when he presses a knot in the flat surface of the wooden cart, a slot opens up and a little grey cauldron protrudes from the slot, propelled upwards by a sturdy silver spring. Albus lights it with the tip of his wand, inspecting the tiny items hidden away in his palms, and then plops three of them inside. Plumes of fussy violet steam come billowing out of the cauldron, draping itself across Scorpius’s knees. 

“Ready?” Albus says. 

“Born ready,” James says, putting his hands on his hips. “Or Cursed ready, whatever!”

The dog barks once; its tail sweeps the rug in excitement. 

Albus makes a complicated series of quick, darting motions over the top of the cauldron, drawing the liquid out with the tip of his wand. It trails after him, following him through the air in a thin stream until he reaches James. James opens his mouth, ready and waiting, only for Albus to snort and flick his wand; the liquid hits him square in the face, splattering his skin from lip to eyebrow. 

James howls, clamping a hand over his face. “That’s f-f-freezing!”

Albus backs away, snickering. He gives the dog the same treatment, albeit slightly less aggressively, cowed by those fierce eyes, while James shivers and shakes, wracked with goosebumps. The dog shakes too, and Scorpius watches in both awe and alarm as the two of them vanish behind a sudden burst of cold, frosty fog. 

“It was a variation of a Transformation Curse,” Albus explains, as the fog percolates gently, obscuring them entirely. “Those are susceptible to breakage under extreme temperatures. You can do it with a simple Freezing Spell or Warming Potion, but never to yourself, if you’re the one under the Curse.”

Most Curses have a simple, easy solution, but the general rule of any good Curse is that they must be broken by an outside source, and usually most Curses contain an element of forced secrecy. That’s what makes a Curse so very deadly and so very beautiful at the same time. 

“You seem like you’ve done this a lot,” Scorpius muses. “If it’s so easily undone, why go to all the trouble of making a Potion like that?”

Albus looks at him askance, settling his hands in his pockets. “I don't know, really. I’ve always liked studying Curses, and I liked making Potions, so I thought I’d combine the two. Got to make a living somehow, right? You’d be surprised how many people come all this way for my help.”

“Well, not really. I’m here, aren’t I?”

Inexplicably, Albus flushes. Then he shakes himself off just in time for two very tall men to come bursting across the room, the frosty fog dissipating behind them. One of the men launches himself at Albus, wrapping his arms around and his neck and hollering indistinctly. The other stands back a little, smiling amiably and rubbing his forearms, wiggling his thumbs in the air. 

“Alby! You did it, thanks mate.” The man, who at that volume can only be James, draws back to beam. “Thought I was gonna be stuck as a little brat forever. We can always count on you and your pumpkins, can’t we?”

Albus pushes him off, scowling. “Stop getting yourself into trouble and maybe you won’t need to count on me and my pumpkins.”

“Thanks, Al.” The other man steps forward to shake Albus’s hand, much to his visible relief, only to betray him at the last minute by pulling him into a back-slapping hug. “I really didn't want to spend the rest of my life as a dog.”

“No problem, Teddy,” Albus says, muffled, into the man’s shoulder. “Now go away.”

James grins lecherously. “What, you don't want us to stick around for the big reveal?”

There is a moment of brief silence as all of them glance at Scorpius, who blinks, taken aback. 

“Ah, there’s not much to reveal, really,” Scorpius says. “I wouldn’t want to keep you. I do want to thank you, though, for bringing me here. Going back on the train would have been a nightmare, and I’m really grateful you brought me to someone who can actually help.”

James throws back his head and laughs. “Hear that, Al? You haven’t even helped him yet and he’s singing your praises.”

Teddy elbows James in the side. “We should be going, shouldn’t we? We’ve still got a job to do, after all.”

They get down to business after that. James insists that the bond of brotherhood is payment enough, and Albus insists that biscuits don't come cheap, especially when he doesn’t even get to eat them. Eventually, Teddy leans down to whisper something in Albus’s ear, and he grows very red before nodding reluctantly. Scorpius doesn’t even make it out of his chair before they’re both out of the door, waving and grinning. 

“Nice to meet you, Granddad! I’ll send you a nice walking stick in the post, yeah?”

Up the garden path they go, disappearing into the foul weather. Albus shuts the door, plunging the cottage into near-silence. The cauldron is still bubbling away, and the wooden cart is rattling impatiently, and the crackle of warm, glowing embers provides a soothing background. Scorpius watches Albus struggle to speak for a moment, as though he’s run out of energy to be sociable, and steps up to the plate. 

“What did they mean, when they said they could always count on you and your pumpkins?” 

“Oh.” Albus crosses the room and opens several of the larger drawers. “They meant this.”

Pumpkins. Very tiny pumpkins. The drawers are full of them, and presumably so are the cupboards and the slots. Each one is different, be it a different shade of the rainbow or glowing with iridescence. One of the pumpkins is gnarled and growing even tinier vines, and another appears to have a coat of miniature mushrooms draped over its stump. 

“Seriously?” Scorpius picks up one of the little emerald pumpkins gingerly and inspects it. “That’s your secret? You’re a Wizard that specialises in Curses, and you’re successful because you use pumpkins.”

Scowling, Albus snatches the pumpkin back and places it carefully inside one of the drawers. 

“Not that—it’s not a bad thing. I wasn’t judging. I was just surprised, that’s all!”

“D’you want me to fix you or not?”

Scorpius nods quickly, hobbling to stand in front of the fire. He waits, fidgeting while Albus selects more pumpkins, routing through the drawers with his brow creased, like he’s trying to do long division in his head. 

“Here,” Albus says, holding out a lilac, plump pumpkin. It’s no bigger than a thimble. “Chew it up, and let it sit on your tongue for a minute. Then spit it in the fire.”

Scorpius takes the pumpkin, squinting at it warily. He starts to protest, but Albus gives him a dark, warning look, and he pops it in his mouth quickly. Chewing it’s as hard as he thought it would be. The pumpkin is soft, sort of mushy, and tastes fairly sweet. A bit like a marshmallow. 

It takes a minute to feel anything. 

“Feel tingly yet?” Albus asks. 

Scorpius opens his mouth to say no, precisely as tingles erupt across his tongue, and it falls heavily on top of his teeth. He feels as though his whole body is being unscrumpled, smoothed out like a piece of paper. Then he blinks, and Albus is much closer, and there are no aches and no wrinkles and no groaning, creaking bones to complain about.

oOo

When Scorpius returns to the cheese shop, the mice have done their work diligently, and every basket is waiting on the counter, ready to be sent off, just in time for All Haloumi’s Eve. All Scorpius has to do is double-check the contents and clean a few of the great big cheese wheels that the mice run on to get the churners going. After that, he collapses into bed and stares woodenly at the ceiling.

So much has happened in the last day or so, and he’s not really sure how to comprehend it. Albus didn't waste time getting him out of the cottage after the Curse broke, although Scorpius had been reluctant to leave until he apologised for his grouchy old-man behaviour. But by then it was clear that Albus was exhausted, so he cleared off quickly, taking the night train home. 

Now he’s got an entire week spread out ahead of them, and not much to keep him busy. 

“I may as well clean, I suppose,” Scorpius mutters, before rolling over and dropping off to sleep. 

A few days into his self-imposed cleaning marathon, the mice are irritated with him, and Scorpius has sore hands from all the scrubbing. It’s a relief when the post arrives, a paper bag of parcels strung over the end of a broomstick. Scorpius takes it inside and delves into the goodies eagerly; a box of sweets from his Grandmother, a new pair of gloves from his mother, and a book from his father. 

“How To Catch Troublesome Toads, A Guide by Thaddeus ‘Tad’ Hopper,” Scorpius reads aloud, with interest. He flips through the book, noting several traps and a few Curses of his own, before he catches sight of a small, thin parcel at the bottom of the bag, almost forgotten. 

Intrigued, he pulls it out and unwraps it. There’s no note, but the sender is pretty obvious after a first glance at the contents. 

It’s a retractable walking stick. 

Chuckling, Scorpius places the looped end on the hat-stand and carries his goodies away. He means to settle down and read the book, perhaps set up one of the traps, but before he can do more than sit comfortably in the armchair behind the main desk, the door blows open. 

A chill creeps up Scorpius’s spine.

oOo

“Cursed again?”

The sheer horror of finding Scorpius on his doorstep again, only a few days after their first meeting, seems to sap the last remaining patience from Albus. Scorpius opens his mouth, moving it soundlessly several times, before pointing a finger vigorously at his own useless tongue. 

“Huh.” Albus stirs a little from his slumped, boneless pose against the door-frame, briefly pausing his emittance of pure disgust. “A Curse of Silence? Or a Tongue-Twister?”

Scorpius pokes out his tongue, flat and un-twisted, and shakes his head again. 

“Curse of Silence, then. Never had to deal with one of them in person, but I think I know which pumpkins to use. Come in, and mind the rug, it’s feeling testy today.”

The cottage is much the same as Scorpius remembers, although there’s no cosy fire, and no warm, sugary scent oozing from the oven. Something bubbles away on the hob but it smells earthy and natural, like a fresh shovel-full of earth, or the morning dew. The rug in the hallway keeps rolling itself up and unrolling again, like a long, lecherous tongue; Scorpius side-steps it, swearing internally at his stubbornly Silent tongue. 

Albus leads him over to the vending machine. The little wooden cart is quiet and still today, shaking with the faintest of snores. Scorpius fidgets while Albus opens drawers and cupboards, but when he eventually comes back to him, he comes back empty-handed. 

“I need a cotton pumpkin, but I’ve run out. Lily used my last few to make a batch of Lace Softener for a client’s dress, so I’ve got to harvest more.” Albus hesitates, glancing around the cottage, before jerking his head down the hallway. “You can come with me to the pumpkin patch, if you want.”

And Scorpius very much does want, even if he’s still a little leery of pumpkins and the problems they pose, so out they go, through the winding hallways and out a back door hidden behind a bookcase. The crisp wind buffets him in the face, and he hunkers down inside his coat collar, watching Albus pick his way among the pumpkins. 

“It’s not really a pumpkin patch,” Albus says. “They sort of grow wherever they want. I tried to get them to grow in lines and groups, so I knew where they were, but they just buggered off and got comfy somewhere else once I left.”

At his feet, in the layers of damp, dark soil, several pumpkins wriggle happily. 

Scorpius steps gingerly through the pumpkin patch, climbing a hay bale on the far end, beside a low, overgrown hedge. He settles there and accepts the pumpkin that Albus gives him; this one is much larger than the last, and he spends a good minute peeling it with his wand first, before he encourages Scorpius to wash his hands with the pumpkin juice. 

“Any minute now,” Albus says. 

It takes more than a minute, but eventually Scorpius can speak again. The Curse breaks with a soft pop, and he pokes his tongue out several times, clearing his throat just to be sure. 

“Oh, thank you,” Scorpius says, deflating in relief. “I think that’s the longest I’ve gone without speaking before.” 

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.” 

Scorpius shrugs, not really offended. It’s true that he talks a lot, and often, and that he never really stops for breath, and it’s long since stopped being a source of embarrassment for him. He embraces it now, instead. 

“I’ll get out of your hair! Oh, what kind of payment do you usually accept? I brought some money with me just in case, or I can have some cheese sent to you.” 

Albus cocks his head, curious. “Cheese?” 

“From my shop.” Scorpius grins. “I own a Cheese Shop on the other end of the train line.” 

This doesn’t particularly seem to surprise Albus, who nods like it makes sense. 

“So, cheese?” Scorpius asks hopefully. 

Albus sighs. “Don’t send me blue cheese, and we’ve got a deal.”

oOo

The next Curse shrinks his fingers to the size of pins. The one after that forces him to speak in a rhyming couplet, which is more irritating than anything. He doesn’t see the next Curse coming, doesn’t even see the toad that casts it, and he ends up stumbling to Albus’s cottage with a bad case of dizzy, vomit-inducing vertigo. Albus let’s him lie down on the sofa until the pumpkin takes effect, and then brings him a cup of tea while he groans and moans into the cushions.

“Drink this,” Albus says. “I’m making stew, and you might as well stay for some.” 

“I’m going to send you an entire wheel of Edam.” 

Albus’s laughter grows quieter as he heads into the kitchen. The clanking and clattering of pans and ladles fills the room. Scorpius heaves himself upright, pumpkin magic tingling through him, and reaches for his tea like a drowning man reaching for a lifeline. 

The nice thing about Albus is that he doesn’t really ask questions. Not about personal things, like why Scorpius owns a cheese shop of all things, and why he keeps getting Cursed—which means he doesn’t have to admit that he’s being bested by a toad. The problem is that the more time Scorpius spends with him, the more he wants to talk about personal things. He wants to sit together on an evening with stew and pie and cheesy garlic bread, and spend time talking in the intimate dark. 

But Albus simply opens the door for him, feeds him pumpkins and tea, and accepts his cheese basket without comment. It almost seems as if he’s not interested in making friends with Scorpius, and he sort of resigns himself to it, until suddenly something changes. Something small, perhaps, something internal that Scorpius isn’t privy to. Either way, Albus opens up. 

“I haven’t said anything, but aren’t pumpkins technically…” Scorpius trails off nervously, swinging his feet from where he’s perched on top of the hay bale outside, watching Albus tend his pumpkin patch. 

“Illegal?”

“Well, yes.” Scorpius cringes. “I mean, you keep helping me lift Curses, so I’m not about to turn you in to anyone, but I do wonder why you’re so unconcerned with consequences.”

Poking around his pumpkin patch keeps Albus busy and silent for a while. A long while. Almost long enough for Scorpius to feel ignored and forgotten, sitting on a hay bale with nothing else to occupy his time and a burning curiosity nestled in his chest. But eventually Albus sighs and stands up, planting both hands on the small of his back and curving it to stretch out the kinks. 

“They’re a Class P Tradable Good, so yeah, they’re illegal. But nobody cares because my dad’s some big fancy Wizard who saved a bunch of people, so they let me off the hook. I hate it. When I was younger, I hated it even more. Enough to try and push my luck, to see how much they’d forgive. I kept pushing, and they kept giving me room. Eventually I got tired of it all, and I decided I was going to do something that was still a big middle finger to the world, but that helped people too.”

Scorpius stops swinging his feet, staring with avid, awed interest at the man rooted in the middle of his pumpkin patch, back slightly bent, face tilted towards the sky. Not as if he has the whole weight of the world resting on him, but as if he’s quite stubbornly decided that he’s going to take as much of it on him as possible, simply to spite everyone else. 

“Huh,” Scorpius says. “That’s very…”

“Passive-aggressive? Stupid? Childish?

“I was going to say admirable,” Scorpius says, softening his smile when Albus looks at him sharply. “Admirable, awe-inspiring, and very _Albus_ of you. All the ‘A’ words, it seems. The good ones, anyway.”

Albus holds his gaze for a few seconds, but it soon grows to be too much for both of them. Cheeks burning, they avert their eyes; Scorpius looks over at the thatched roof, where birds are lining up to sing their evening songs, and Albus focuses on peeling off his muddy gloves. 

“We should probably go back in,” Albus says. “It looks like rain.”

oOo

It rains for so long, and so heavily, that soon the world outside is nothing but a haze of black sky and water. It pounds against the roof and shakes the windows with furious hands. Water trickles in through a leak in the ceiling, and Albus stops it with a spell, but the rain is so fierce that it comes in anyway. They end up fishing out an old bucket and using it to catch the stray drips.

With all the hatches battened and the fire roaring despite the tumultuous wind outside, there’s not much left to do but sit and wait. 

“Unless you know any magic to get you from here to the train station, you might as well stay here tonight,” Albus says. “I haven’t got much room, but you can take the chair and we can conjure some cushions or something.”

Some prim, proper part of Scorpius reminds him quite pointedly that he knows a few ways to travel short distances, and all he’d need was a bit of paper, a piece of quartz, and a long-stemmed match. The other, far more traitorous part of him wants to see Albus stumbling around in the morning, with bed-hair and soft pyjamas. 

But he isn’t a liar, not without good reason, so he dutifully reels off his list of ingredients. If he happens to look a bit miserable about it, then that’s his business. 

“Ah,” Albus says, looking away, far too casual to be truthful. “Don't think I’ve got any quartz, I’m afraid.”

Delighted, Scorpius gracefully concedes to take the couch. The evening passes far too quickly, both of them converging around a game of Drabble—the point appears to be to fill the board with the shortest words possible out of your tiles, but Scorpius has always been very long-winded, and Albus keeps being determined to best him, so the game falls apart quickly. Hot raspberry tea in hand, Scorpius relaxes against the chair, feet aimed at the crackling fire, and listens to Albus explain the names and uses of several pumpkins. 

“Most people think that the more complex a Curse is, the harder it is to break it, but that’s not true. If you’re not sure what to do, then it’s always the simplest option that will break a Curse.”

“What about when the Curse is layered?” Scorpius asks, leaning in. “Surely that calls for more than one cure, and a more complicated one?”

Albus leans in too, his bright, hazel eyes alight with excitement. There is something brilliant about seeing someone so passionate about what they do for a living, and Scorpius can only sit and stare, eager to listen to every word that pours out of his mouth. 

“No, see, that’s where people get it wrong. Take True Love’s Kiss, for example.” For a moment, both of them glance at each other’s mouths, before Albus moves on hurriedly. “That’s one of the most complicated Curses in the world. There’s the compulsion to find your True Love, which is part of the Curse. There’s the element of Forced Secrecy, which most Curses have—because how are you supposed to know if it’s True, if you demand it from your Love? And there’s usually a Negative Effect, too. Those are Transformation elements, or Unnatural Conditions, that can only be broken by the Kiss itself.” 

“Ah, like not being able to wake up until the Curse is broken. Or only being able to speak in limericks. Or having to dance naked on the roof of your home every time the temperature rises above thirteen degrees Celsius.”

“Or being Silenced,” Albus says, with a pointed look at Scorpius’s open mouth. “But yeah, you get the point. All of those elements layered on top of each other are what make it such a complex Curse. But the whole thing can still be undone by the simplest action of all—a kiss. The more layers to a Curse, the easier they are to break. You just pick the simplest action, and go from there.”

“Fascinating,” Scorpius murmurs, clutching his tea and staring thoughtfully at the fire. “I never thought there’d be so much to know about Curses. I just thought each Curse was a known Curse, and it would have a known Counter-Curse.” 

When he glances at Albus, he has to do a double-take at the faintly upset, embarrassed look on his face. 

“Sorry,” Albus says. “I know it’s boring. You shouldn’t have let me go on and on like that. My family usually just pokes me to get me to shut up, if you want to try that next time.” 

“I don’t see that happening.” Scorpius puts the mug down on the side-table carefully. “I don’t find you boring at all. I like listening to you, see, and I’d quite like there to be a next time.” 

The rain hammers on the cottage, which is the only reason why the silence isn’t unbearable. Albus stared at him, blatantly shocked. But when Scorpius doesn’t take back his words, he gets abruptly to his feet, very red about the ears, and loudly proclaims that it’s getting late. 

“I’ll get you some blankets,” Albus says, and then he scurries off down the hall instead of summoning them. 

Later, when Scorpius is buried under a mound of blankets, long legs thrown across the sofa, he listens to the rain and wonders why it feels so very easy to be around this man. He’s had crushes before, and he always falls in love without even a hint of reciprocation, but if he’s truthful with himself instead of lingering on his insecurities… well, it almost seems like Albus might be feeling the same things. 

Wriggling with delight, Scorpius pulls the blankets up to his chin, a grin spreading across his face. It vanishes only second as a dark patch blooms on the ceiling, and a crack appears, followed by a cascade of water; Scorpius dives off the sofa in time to avoid drowning, but it doesn’t do much about the sofa, which is drenched instantly. He whips out his wand and casts several spells, knitting the cracks in the ceiling shut and reinforcing the roof at the same time. Water drips down still, but it doesn’t fall like it did before. 

A light flicks on behind him. “Scorpius?” 

“Sorry,” he whispers, turning around, his wand still held aloft. “The roof sort of cracked? And now the sofa is covered in water. I fixed it, but there’s still a leak.” 

Albus blinks at the scene, sleepy-eyed and rumpled. “Just come and sleep in here.” 

He turns around before Scorpius can protest, and it’s late enough that he can’t seem to find the energy to come up with an argument. He follows Albus, padding quietly down the hall and into the bedroom. 

“Take the left hand side,” Albus whispers. “I’ll sort the sofa out in the morning.”

Scorpius hurries over to the other side of the bed, climbing under the covers. The quilt is a soft indigo blue, dark like the night sky, with a pattern of stars embroidered all over it in silver thread. He tucks himself under it and lays very still while Albus flicks off the light and crawls into the bed beside him. 

It’s dark and quiet for a minute. Scorpius shifts, trying to get comfortable, and tries not to brush up against Albus at all. It’s a little awkward, and usually he’d just have insisted on sleeping on the floor, but he likes Albus a little too much to pass up the opportunity. Only now he’s forgotten how to act like a normal human being, and it’s making the whole experience hellish. 

“If you keep lying there like you’re in a coffin, I’m going to stuff you in one for real.”

Scorpius snorts, caught off guard, but it does the job of making him relax. He wriggles around until he’s on his side, and Albus catches his eye, looking exhausted and fond. 

“I wanted to ask you something,” Albus says. “You keep sending me cheese, and it’s really good, but it’s not what I expected you to do.”

Something inside him sinks a little. “No?”

“That’s not a bad thing,” Albus says. “You just seemed like someone who’d want to stick his nose into every problem in the world to try and fix it. Can’t stand people like that.”

Scorpius laughs quietly. “Can’t you? Well, I guess I was like that, at one point. And I still am, a bit. I used to be a Lawyer, actually.”

“What happened?”

Scorpius purses his lips, not entirely sure how to explain it. 

“You don't have to say, if it’s too hard. Sorry.” 

“No, it’s fine,” Scorpius whispered. “I think, in the end, it just wasn’t good for me. I put so much pressure on myself to be perfect, and smart, and successful. I wanted to prove myself, but I’m not sure who I was trying to prove myself too. The world, maybe. Or my parents. I felt like I had to make up for every bad thing that ever came before me, as though everything was all down to me.”

“What changed?”

“It wasn’t anything big. I had a long, awful week at work, and I lost a case. A big case. I went home and ate so much cheese straight out of the fridge, and I remember sitting on my bed and thinking, ‘I don't want to feel this way anymore.’ It was just too hard.”

Albus rolls over slowly, pillowing his head on his arm, and looks at Scorpius, eyes shining in the dark. 

“So you packed up and left? Just like that?”

“It took me a couple of days to actually leave, but yes,” Scorpius admits. “I left my whole life’s work behind at the drop of a hat, and moved out here with my parents, and I opened a cheese shop.”

“Really? That’s…”

“Unexpected? Ridiculous? A bit pathetic?”

“I was going to say brave.” Albus doesn’t shy away from his gaze when Scorpius looks at him suddenly. “Very Scorpius of you, if you ask me. Which you kind of did.”

“I suppose I did,” Scorpius says, a bit breathlessly. 

There is a moment, there in the dark, dry warmth, with the rain pounding down all around them, where they drift a little too close. Close enough that something almost happens. One of the simplest, and perhaps most complicated things in the world. He can feel Albus’s warmth through the quilt, and he can feel the frantic beat of his pulse where Scorpius’s knuckle has nudged his wrist. There is something heady about it all, and he almost leans in. 

But then a deep, rumbling roar of thunder sends them jerking apart, and a silver shard of lightning cracks through the sky, illuminating the room even through the thick curtains. 

Scorpius turns quickly onto his back, eyes on the ceiling, heart in his mouth. He hears rustling as Albus turns over, facing the wall, and only relaxes enough to sleep when he hears a soft, “G’dnight,” whispered from beneath the covers.

oOo

“What keeps doing this to you?” Albus keeps his back turned, carefully chopping carrots. “At this point, I’m _this_ close to accusing you of actively looking for Curses.”

“Are you suggesting that I want to end up on your doorstep, swooning like an idiot, so badly that I purposely turned my toes into toadstools? Is that really the kind of person you think I am?”

Albus lifts one shoulder. “If the boot fits.”

“You’re wrong.” Scorpius leans back, arms crossed over his chest. “I didn't do anything! I’ve been minding my own business the entire time, but just as I’m about to get some chores down or put my foot up, this horrible toad turns up and blows the door open and starts throwing Curses at me.”

“A… toad?”

“Yes! Well, a Witch disguised as a Toad, at the very least.”

The deft, precise sound of the knife hitting the chopping board comes to a sudden stop. Albus tilts his head slightly, not quite turning to look at Scorpius, but very much directing his shrewd suspicion at him. 

“What makes you think it’s a Witch?”

Scorpius ponders the question for a minute, nose wrinkling. “I’m not entirely sure, to be honest. It can’t be an average, ordinary toad, since it’s got so much magic in it.”

“No,” Albus says. “I meant, why d’you think it’s a Witch and not a Wizard?” 

“Oh, well, the toad has all the markings of a female. Same indigo spots on its back, and far more warts. My father sent me a book all about them so that I can try and catch it in a trap, and I haven’t got very far in, but it’s definitely a lady toad. Stands to reason that it’s probably a Witch.”

Albus doesn’t say anything, but Scorpius can tell from the set of his shoulders that he’s not happy. The chopping starts up again, but this time the movements are fast and vigorous, bordering on aggression. 

“What are you going to do with the… the Witch,” Albus says, through gritted teeth, “when you catch her?”

“Nothing bad. It’s possible she just keeps having a very bad day. Or maybe I offended her once in the street, accidentally, and didn't realise.” Scorpius drums his fingers against the table. “I did wonder if she’s in the same boat as me, actually. Plenty of people have been Cursed into creatures before, haven’t they? It could be a spell or a jinx, but I’m leaning towards Curse.”

Albus abandons the chopping altogether and lets his magic finish the job off for him. Drying his hands on a dish-towel, he turns around and leans against the counter, surveying Scorpius with a strange, inexplicable look in his eye. Scorpius can’t place it. He dearly wants to, though. There’s a lot about Albus that he wants to know and understand. He seems to be one of those people that gets deeper and more interesting the more time you spend with them, like a book that looks rote and ordinary in the blurb, but reveals new twists with every turn of the page. 

“If only I knew somebody who was very good at breaking Curses,” Scorpius muses aloud. 

The strange look in Albus’s eyes softens, and his mouth twitches reluctantly into a smile. “If only.”

oOo

Toad-catching requires a lot more practice than Scorpius thought it would. He finds a spare minute to read the book thoroughly, conjuring everything he needs, and then he politely asks the mice for a hand. They give him sour looks from underneath the wicker baskets that he uses to trap them, and several of them end up sprinting away, squeaking shrilly, after he accidentally drops it on their tails, but eventually he gets the hang of it.

After a suspiciously quiet Thursday, Scorpius sets the trap up on the inside of his shop door. It takes a mere matter of minutes, and he privately admits to himself that he might have been stalling for the last week or so; if he catches the toad, then he won’t have an excuse to visit Albus so frequently. But he really has had enough of growing broccoli out of strange places and having to walk around with his eyes glued shut. 

Scorpius makes himself a cup of tea and a cheese sandwich, positions the chair directly opposite the door, and settles himself in to wait. 

No sooner has the clock struck three than the door blows open, the wind howling through the cheese shop in a ruckus of noise and chaos, and there, on the doorstep, is a plump, emerald green toad. 

Scorpius leaps to his feet and dives behind the counter. He hears the pop of a Curse that zooms towards him and shatters the display case, spraying glass across the floor. A snapping sound makes him jerk his head up, and when he hears a soft thump, he allows himself to feel hopeful. Silence reigns for a minute. Then, out of the silence, comes a faint, questioning croak. 

He pops back up from behind the counter and whoops in excitement, throwing his fist in the air. The toad watches him balefully, the wicker basket covering its fat, slimy body. 

“Caught you!” Scorpius beams. “Finally. I didn't think I would, you know, since you’re obviously quite powerful. But don't worry, I’m not mad. In fact, I’m going to help you!”

The toad looks at Scorpius with disdain from within the wicker basket, eyes bulging reproachfully.

oOo

For the first time since Scorpius met him, Albus isn’t home when he knocks on the cottage door. The moors are quiet today, no rain or thunder or fierce wind intent on rattling the walls.

“Albus?”

The door opens easily enough, but the cottage itself is empty. There’s still a fire in the grate, burning low enough that it's mostly just embers by now, and the faint smell of pumpkin pie lingers in the air. Scorpius puts the toad in the middle of the dining table, encased entirely in the wicker basket, and ignores the way it glares at him. 

“I know this looks bad from your point of view,” Scorpius tells the toad. “I suppose I did just kidnap you and bring you to a reclusive cottage in the moors, but in fairness, you do keep Cursing me.”

The toad croaks its judgement for all to hear. 

Half an hour passes before he has to conclude that Albus is either very lost on the moors, or he’s gone somewhere pretty far. Maybe to his brother’s house to sleep for the night, or to peddle his pumpkins in some of the shadier markets. Either way, he can’t keep the toad in the wicker basket forever, and he doesn’t want to intrude all night, or trekk all the way back here tomorrow morning. 

“If it’s a Transformation Curse, then all I need to do is subject you to extreme temperatures,” Scorpius says. “That’s if you’re even under a Curse at all.”

The toad sits up on its hind legs - which Scorpius didn't even know they could do - and slaps one webbed hand against the wicker bars. 

“Ah,” Scorpius says, wide-eyed. “Well, that answers that, I suppose. You understand me then?”

The toad croaks once. 

“Don't suppose you could tell me what it is I need to do?”

The toad shakes its head. 

“Ah, right. Forced Secrecy, wasn’t it?” Scorpius hums. “Bugger. I guess I’ll have to use my brain then. I won’t blast you with ice unless it gets really dire.” Frowning, he starts to pace back and forth across the kitchen. “I don't want to risk giving you the wrong pumpkin. It would help if I knew exactly what Curse you were under. What did Albus say? Curses, no matter how layered, are always broken by the simplest action. Of course, he was talking about True Love’s Kiss, and no offence, but I highly doubt that you’re...”

Scorpius stops, turning slowly on his heel to face the wicker basket. The toad has nothing to say for itself, simply watching him. 

“Oh no,” Scorpius says. “Oh no, oh no.”

Because suddenly, the empty cottage makes sense. The empty cottage and the open door and the way Albus always seems to warily accept Scorpius’s presence here, but never asks any questions beyond the most basic; it all makes an awful lot of sense. 

“Albus?” Scorpius asks, almost hoping that he’s wrong. 

The toad, of course, says nothing. It doesn’t even shake its head, or croak, or move, which is more damning than anything else. Forced Secrecy at its finest. Scorpius groans, steeling himself. Then he flips open the catch on the wicker basket and grabs the toad before it can escape, lifting it to eye-level. It’s surprisingly not as slimy as he thought, but it still makes him shudder to look into bulbous eyes and that slim, greenish mouth. 

“This is now how I imagined our first kiss,” Scorpius mutters. 

Before he can lose his nerve, he draws the toad towards his face, scrunches up his eyes, and kisses it full on the mouth. The weight in his hands grows so suddenly that he drops them, and Albus stumbles against him, their mouths jerking apart as the kiss breaks. Scorpius blinks up at him, taking in the laughter lines and the emerald green eyes and the black, curly hair. No warts, no slimy skin, and no bulging throat. 

“Oh thank goodness.”

“I can’t believe you thought I was a Witch,” Albus says. 

“Oh no,” Scorpius says, slapping a hand over his mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry, but before you say anything else, I need to wash my mouth.”

Gagging, Scorpius runs towards the sink and sticks his head under the tap, gargling some water. He can hear Albus stomping about behind him, but he ignores it in favour of summoning a toothbrush and hacking away at his teeth and tongue. 

“You can calm down,” Albus says. “You didn't even slip me any tongue. Poor excuse for a first kiss if you ask me.”

Scorpius glares at him over his shoulder. “Don't. You didn't have to kiss a toad.”

“I did have to physically be a _toad_ though, multiple times, so I think I had it worse.”

That’s a fair enough point, but Scorpius keeps scrubbing until he feels marginally cleaner, and then he washes the sink out, puts the toothbrush in the draining board, and turns around to face Albus. He’s sat at the kitchen table, prodding the wicker basket moodily, face set in a frown. 

“Okay, so,” Scorpius says. “Why exactly were you a toad?”

“I was a frog, actually,” Albus snaps, before sighing. “I told you I was kind of a brat when I was younger, right? Well, some people didn't take too kindly to me pushing my luck, and one Witch Cursed me. It was a slow-activation Curse, though. Only sets in once you meet someone with the potential to be your True Love.”

“Ah.” Tentatively, Scorpius joins him at the table. “Me?” 

“D’you see anyone else in here that just snogged a frog?”

Scorpius shudders again, sticking his tongue out briefly. “Please don't remind me. I’m hoping I can erase it from my brain if I try hard enough. But… didn't you meet me for the first time _after_ I’d been Cursed?”

At this, Albus goes an interesting shade of red. “Technically, yeah. But I saw you for the first time at your Cheese Shop. You just didn't see me because I was busy turning into a toad. I managed to ignore the compulsion the first time, but the consequences of that Curse is transforming into a toad _and_ causing havoc for your True Love’s life. It’s supposed to make it harder for you to get closer to them.”

“Well, I think it had the opposite effect for us, didn't it?” 

Albus glances down at his feet, smiling. “Yeah. I guess it did. You’re not mad?”

“Why on earth would I be mad?” Scorpius steels himself again, taking another risk, albeit much smaller than kissing a frog. “I get to presumably keep kissing someone that I’m very nearly in love with, and I’m not going to keep getting Cursed every week. It seems like I’ve won no matter which way you spin it.”

“Yeah?” Albus perks up, reaching out to take his hand. 

“Yeah,” Scorpius says. “Just, please, could you stay human for our second kiss? And all the ones after that?”

Albus laughs, pulling him out of the chair and into his arms, pressing their lips together in a soft, entirely un-slimy kiss.

“I think that can be arranged.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you had fun! <3


End file.
